


falling back into routine

by just_anothercrazyfangirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Happy Ending, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Literal Sleeping Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Scar Worship, Touch starved Sherlock, actually very little angst, soft! sherlock, that... seems to be all i write about now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-31
Updated: 2019-01-31
Packaged: 2019-10-19 16:07:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17604566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_anothercrazyfangirl/pseuds/just_anothercrazyfangirl
Summary: John moves back in.There’s no dramatic talk, or plea —  none of the sort. John simply begins leaving things at Sherlock’s flat, and they compile bit by bit until one day, he stops leaving.It’s almost startling how easily they fall back into their normal routine. Their constant rows, the messes in the kitchen, the way they fly through the streets of London, adrenaline coursing through their veins like a drug — and oh, has John missed this.





	falling back into routine

**Author's Note:**

> there is a very (very) brief mention of blood and stab wounds near the end of this fic, so if this triggers you, click away now.
> 
> i hope you enjoy this! i'm actually lowkey proud of it :)
> 
> also! fun game: count the amount of times i use the word 'impassive'  
> i'm pretty sure it's at least five

John moves back in.

There’s no dramatic talk, or plea —  none of the sort. John simply begins leaving things at Sherlock’s flat, and they compile bit by bit until one day, he stops leaving.

It’s almost startling how easily they fall back into their normal routine. Their constant rows, the messes in the kitchen, the way they fly through the streets of London, adrenaline coursing through their veins like a drug — and _oh_ , has John missed this.

Sherlock has too, he notices; in the way he secretly smiles to himself when he doesn’t think John is looking. (John’s always looking.)

It feels right, being back here: normal, domestic. There’s gold in John’s chest — a warm, bright, trickling gold — that he can’t seem to keep at bay.

He isn’t sure he wants to.

~ • ~

The question hits John one day while they’re in the sitting room. Sherlock’s on his phone, curled up in his chair, and John’s reading a sappy novel that Mrs. Hudson had recommended.

It has the workings of a rare, lazy day— except for the question that keeps nagging at John’s brain.

There’s not anything that’s prompted the question either; John figures that it’s just something that had been at the back of this mind until now.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Why did you leave my wedding?”

Sherlock’s fingers still on his phone, but he doesn’t look up; his face remains an impassive mask, shoulders relaxed. The only thing that briefly gives away his discomfort is the slight twitch in his right eyebrow. “Bored.”

John rolls his eyes. “Please. You were coming down from an adrenaline rush of solving a case, preventing someone’s death, performing a waltz of your own composition _and_ being the best man at my wedding. Try again.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, tapping his fingers on the screen — he’s not typing anymore, John notices — “I needed air. Too many people.”

“You see, when most people need air, they step out for a little bit to breathe. They don’t leave entirely then cut off all contact for a month,” The words taste bitter in John’s mouth and he takes a sip of his tea to swallow around them.

Sherlock flinches then, setting his phone on his lap — he still hasn’t met John’s eyes — and resting his hands under his chin. There’s a ten second pause, then he abruptly stands up, popping the collar of his coat up and heading for the door.

“Where are _you_ going?”

“Out.” He’s facing the mirror now, fluffing his —thick, soft, bouncy, _wonderful_ — curls and tightening his scarf around his neck.

John stands too, crossing his arms and glaring at the man in front of him. “Out? Out where?”

Only then does Sherlock meet John’s eye, give him a tight smile and say, “Air.”

The coat billows behind him as he strides down the stairs, the firm closing of the door behind him reverberating throughout the sitting room.

It doesn’t slip John’s notice that he doesn’t answer the question.

~ • ~

He returns an hour later with two boxes of Chinese food from the restaurant down the road and the smell of salt clinging to his skin.

They don’t talk about it.

~ • ~

A few weeks pass without much harm. There are three cases, all successful; one is solved within the day, another in three, and another in a week and a half. (That one almost hadn’t been. It had been long, hard, one of the more dangerous ones they’d taken on in a while.)

But today is normal. John pads into the kitchen, bleary-eyed and in the mood for a strong cup of tea. He half expects the table to be strewn with various experiments and severed limbs — he prepares himself to be angry, even though he knows he won’t even be for that long. he never can be with Sherlock — and is quite frankly, surprised, to see Sherlock sitting there, holding out a steaming mug with one hand, sipping thoughtfully from the other.

(John can’t help it to be just a tad suspicious.)

“Sherlock? What. . .  is that?”

Sherlock looks — adorably — confused, staring down at the cup he’s offering to his flatmate. “I believe it’s tea.”

“Tea. You made tea.”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’.

“ _You_ made tea. For me.”

“John? Are you feeling alright?”

John chuckles and takes the mug, letting his fingers linger on Sherlock’s. “Hmm. Yes, uh, fine. You just — you never make tea.”

A small quirk at the corner of his lips, and his head ducks sheepishly for a moment. “Yes. Well. First time for everything.”

There’s a small trickle of something golden and delicious in John’s chest as he looks up at his detective — his hair is strewn with sleep (god _bless_ finally), his shirt is faded and blue, worn in some places from overuse, light eyes glittering with amusement —  and dear _God_ he wants to kiss him.

(He doesn’t, obviously.)

Instead, he rests his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, toying with the soft fabric. “Well. Erm, thank you.” He flashes him a quick smile before turning and shuffling into the sitting room.

He hears a sharp breath from behind him, followed by a shuddering exhale. He glances over his shoulder in concern; Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his fingertips pressed to his temple, and he’s completely still. John’s eyes dance over the man’s form before he sighs and picks up the paper.

~ • ~

That night, they order a takeout and watch the telly. Sherlock makes deductions about the people on the reality TV show John has gotten hooked on, and John shushes him with a gentle kick to the side. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say he saw two blooming spots of pink on Sherlock’s cheekbones.

He decides to blame it on the rosy light of the TV and the flickering heat from the fireplace. (He doesn’t move his foot.)

~ • ~

John stumbles into the flat a few nights later, worn and dead on his feet, only managing to mumble a quick, “Sherlock,” before he climbs up the stairs and collapses on the bed.

The next morning, he comes downstairs, nods in Sherlock’s direction, then pauses. John turns, takes in his general appearance; his face sports dark brown stubble, his face is paler than usual and his hair is disheveled and undone.

Sherlock, John realizes quite suddenly, hasn’t slept in almost — he assumes — four days. His first thought: is he on a case? (why didn’t he ask me?)

He texts Lestrade.

 

 **John:** Have you called Sherlock in on a case recently?

_8:07 am — 11/08/18_

 

 **Greg:** No, why? Does he need one?

_8:09 am — 11/08/18_

 

 **John:** Not sure yet.

_8:09 am — 11/08/18_

 

He sighs, clicks off his phone. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, hands under his chin and he’s curled up in a ball on the sofa. John’s hands unconsciously clench and flex as he debates his options.

He sits down.

A deep breath — “Sherlock?” The man doesn’t move, doesn’t acknowledge the use of his name.

John’s fingers find his knee and press lightly. “Sherlock? You okay?”

The way he reacts reminds John of someone coming up for air after being underwater for a very long time. He inhales somewhat violently and jerks forward, launching John’s hand from his knee until he’s sitting upright in his chair. “Oh. John! Hello.”

John is positive that his confusion and concern is leaking into his voice. “Do. . .  hmm, do you know what day it is?”

Sherlock tilts his head thoughtfully. “Tuesday morning?”

John closes his eyes, clears his throat, attempts to speak steadily. “Hmm. No, uh, it’s Thursday, Sherlock. When was the last time you slept? Or ate?”

It’s quiet for a second. “Monday night,” he finally mumbles. “I slept on Sunday.”

(It’s getting increasingly harder to control his anger.) John clears his throat. “Sherlock. You need sleep. You need food. Contrary to your _opinion_ , you are _a human being_.”

Sherlock shrugs, meets his eyes, then crosses his legs in the chair and folds his arms across his chest. “Can’t.”

“Can’t? Why can’t you?”

“Thinking.”

“About?”

Sherlock stands up then, pulling his robe tighter around him. “Would you like to get breakfast?”

“Beg your pardon?” John raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock waves his hand absentmindedly as he moves toward the hallway. “Breakfast.”

“Sherlock.” John wants the answer this time, wants to get to the bottom of Sherlock’s strange behavior.

“John,” he whines in retaliation. They stare each other down for a minute before John sighs.

“This is what happens when you don’t eat for days on end, you idiot.” He grumbles. Sherlock only grins and heads for his room.

~ • ~

He’s walking to Tesco, rubbing his hands against the cold when the car pulls up beside him. He glances over, rolls his eyes in exasperation when ‘Anthea’ rolls the window down and smiles at him placatingly.

“Hello,”

“You know, he could just call me. Even a text would work!” John grumbles as he slides into the seat next to her.

————

“You could call.”

Mycroft’s mouth quirks up for a moment before his expression falls into one of concern. “How is he?”

“I’m not sure. He’s been acting strange.”

Mycroft scoffs, “Of course he’s been acting strange, he’s Sherlock.”

John’s finding that he rolls his eyes far too often these days. “Well, yes, but. It’s like a switch was flipped in him. After. . .” Clears his throat, tries again. “After the fall. He seems. . .  wistful, almost.”

He expects Mycroft to scoff again, to say, ‘Wistful? Sherlock? Of what?’

Instead, he sighs, pulls a hand down his face. “I always told my brother it was useless to involve himself in the workings of society.”

“Beg your pardon?”

Mycroft fixes him with a level stare. “What brought upon this concern as of late, John?”

John pinches at his nose, finding that he most _certainly_ does not want to discuss this issue with Sherlock’s overbearing older brother. “Most recently, I asked him about my wedding. Why he— why he left early.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft’s mouth curls into a strange smile. “Did he tell you?”

“No. He avoided the subject entirely.”

“What do you consider strange behavior?”

“Uh— he avoids conversation, seems to flinch more when I’m around him—” He cuts off abruptly at the look on Mycroft’s face of concealed amusement. “Is it just me or are you finding pleasure in this?”

Mycroft simply sighs again. “John— ”

John stands, sweeping his coat off his chair into his arms. “No, Mycroft. I’m worried about him— thought you were too, but if you’ve just shuttled me up here for a laugh, I think I’d rather go home.” With that, he nods, mostly to himself, and walks briskly out of the room.

~ • ~

“Hello,” John calls, bounding up the stairs and laying his coat on his armchair.

Sherlock looks up at him and says, “You were with my brother.”

A long sigh pulls itself out of John’s chest, and he chuckles a bit. “Yeah.”

“Any bribes this time? A warrant to search the flat?” And it strikes John as so hilarious, the impassive way Sherlock speaks about his brother, that all he can do is laugh. Sherlock stares at him for a moment, before his lips twitch in the way that means _I want to laugh, but I’m not going to._

“Not this time, I’m afraid,”

Sherlock’s mouth pulls up in a smirk this time. “Pity.”

John walks to the kitchen, heats the kettle, pulls two mugs from the cupboard. When he turns back around, Sherlock is perched on the dining table.

“What did he want to know this time?”

John opens his mouth to answer, then pauses. He considers the conversation — the topic at hand, Mycroft’s behavior — and wanders to the fridge. He clears his throat, searches for milk. “Erm, just a routine checkup, you know.”

Sherlock scrutinizes— John can literally _feel it_ —as the shorter man goes in search of the sugar. It’s higher up on the shelf than usual — Sherlock must’ve put it away — and he stretches up to reach it. The detective chuckles from his seat on the table, and John grumbles in response, sure that he looks like an absolute child in his position.

Then, he hears Sherlock stand up and shuffle over to him. A line of warmth lights against the exposed skin of John’s back, and he watches long fingers wrap around the box and place it on the table.

“A routine checkup? How touching,” Sherlock’s strolling out of the kitchen, sarcasm heavy in his voice. John, however, is reeling, back burning with the touch of Sherlock’s skin: soft and cold—

The kettle’s screaming at him as he snaps out of his thoughts, and he quickly pours the water and finishes the tea. Before he heads into the sitting room, John allows himself a moment to gather his thoughts, regain his composure.

His back tingles. Good _Lord_ , he’s fucked.

~ • ~

There’s blood oozing through the side of Sherlock’s shirt; it’s a startling red against the otherwise pristine white.

John is seething. The ride home has been bursting with tension, Sherlock staring out the window — a mask of impassive boredom — yet the tight clench of his jaw conveys pain.

221B rolls into view and John stiffly hands over cash, stepping out and swiftly unlocking the door. He doesn’t look back to see Sherlock struggle out of the car. Seventeen steps, bathroom, first aid kit, kitchen.

Out in the sitting room, Sherlock looks lost — his stance is unsteady and his gaze flicking throughout the room. John eyes him for a moment before pulling out two chairs. “Kitchen. Now.” He’s surprised by the steadiness of his voice.

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate; it’s a sign of his obvious exhaustion.

“Shirt off.”

And there it is: the objection. Sherlock bristles, crosses his arms. “Why wouldn’t you let the paramedics just take care of it?”

John grits his teeth, stares him down. “If I so recall, every time you’ve _injured_ yourself, I’ve been recruited as your personal doctor.” He spits the last words venomously.

“Well, this isn’t a situation that requires a personal doctor.” Later, it will occur to John that Sherlock is stalling. Right now, the simmering anger boils over.

“You got stabbed, Sherlock! You’d better _bloody believe me_ when I say that this is a situation that requires a personal fucking doctor.” Sherlock opens his mouth to interject, but John plows through. “You can’t keep having such a blatant disregard for your health and safety!”

Sherlock flinches, reading the subtext of his words. ( _You can’t leave me again._ ) He huffs, unbuttons his shirt, peels it off his body. The wound isn’t horribly deep, but it’s long and jagged.

John nods, pulls up the chair beside him. It’s silent in the kitchen as he cleans and tends to the stab wound. Yet the silence isn’t comfortable, as per usual — it’s charged and tense. When John finishes, he pushes away and the sound of the chair  scraping on the floor pulls Sherlock out of his reverie. He moves for the shirt just as John’s gaze fixates on the mess of his back.

“Sherlock.” The detective freezes, sighs in defeat.

John slowly reaches out and lets his fingertips hover above his skin. He starts with the burn scar at the nape of his neck, sweeping his thumb along the disfigured skin. Light fingers ghost over the gashes on his shoulder from Serbia, then circle over the _other_ raised stab wound on the fleshy part of his side. There’s a blackened bruise from where a gun wound was almost fatally infected, and Sherlock’s — attempt at — steady breathing falters.

“Oh, Sherlock,” His voice is soft and laced with concern. Sherlock tightens, poised to stand.

“I don’t need your pity, John.”

“It’s not— ” Thick, heavy words twist in his throat. “It’s not pity. I’m just. . . ”

He takes a chance then, a split second to calculate, to consider the signs. John leans his head against the detective’s back, presses his lips to a scar.

Instead of pulling away instantly and yelling, Sherlock sinks back into John. Small hands come to rest on raised sides and he leaves a trail of kisses amongst the wreckage.

“Oh, love,”

Sherlock sucks in a short breath. “Please don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do this. It will make it harder when you come to your senses and stop.”

And it finally clicks for John, at the tone of his voice. The touching, the wistful smiles, the _wedding_ and John’s chest aches twofold — both the scars and the realization that his wonderfully human detective is painfully in love.

“Come to my senses?” He asks.

“You can’t possibly want to do this,” Sherlock gestures vaguely backwards, “with me.”

“With— what? Sherlock, look at me.” A small shake of the head, and the rise and fall under John’s hand grows more erratic.

“Sherlock, breathe. It’s okay. Shh, you’re okay.” Slowly, Sherlock turns around to face him, avoiding his searching gaze.

“Why wouldn’t I want to do this?”

“I’ve hurt you many times, John. Dying, coming back, lying and cheating. I’m crude and insensitive and sharp and you. I don’t know how you could be with me.”

A fierce pang resonates in John’s chest and he scoots closer, moves his hand to cradle Sherlock’s jaw. “I love you.”

At that, his gaze snaps up.

“I love you because you are you, Sherlock. You took a suicidal soldier with a bum leg and a crap shoulder and patched me up, whether I knew it or not. I love you because you would do anything to protect the people you love. I love you because you are the most important person in my life, my best friend. It took me a while to realize it, but I do, and I always have, always will.”

Their lips crash together in a sloppy kiss, and John can feel the wetness on Sherlock’s cheeks — chooses not to call attention to it. Instead, he pulls away, tugs him into a standing position.

“I love you too,” Sherlock mumbles in his rumbling baritone and that golden trickle bursts into a fountain and John’s floating.

They kiss there, in the pale light of the kitchen and when Sherlock leans back his eyes are gentle, warm.  John smoothes his hands through soft hair. “I won’t ever stop, Sherlock. Hell, I don’t even think I can. I love _you_.” Another tear lands on John’s arm, and he kisses the track it leaves on his cheek. “Okay?”

Sherlock nods, dips down for another kiss, and crowds ever closer. This time John pulls back and dodges the detective’s further attempts, grinning crookedly when he whines impatiently in the back of his throat.

“As much as I’m enjoying this, love, you need to sleep. It’s been, what? Three days?”

Sherlock bites his lip sheepishly. “Four. I didn’t sleep the night before Lestrade called.”

“Okay, that’s it. Sleep, now.” There’s finalization in his voice, something John knows Sherlock won’t argue with, yet he doesn’t move. He’s blushing furiously, all of a sudden. “Sherl—”

“May I come with you?” Sherlock blurts.

John’s face brightens in a gentle smile. “Of course.” He holds out his hand, and the detective grasps it tightly, matching his smile with a tentative one of his own.

They climb the stairs into John’s room, and Sherlock sits lightly on the edge of the bed. It should feel strange, John thinks, but it’s surprisingly normal.

“Okay, I’m going to take a shower— lord, it’s been two days, hasn’t it? Ugh, yes, definitely shower. You can’t take a shower because you’ll mess up your dressing, so,” he turns to his dresser, pulls out a large shirt and tosses it in Sherlock’s general direction, “get dressed.”

“This smells like you.” Sherlock sounds confused, worrying the soft fabric between his fingers.

“Yes, love, that was the plan.” Sherlock blinks in what John can only categorize as surprise. “Get dressed.”

John smiles to himself as he walks into the bathroom.

————

When he exits twenty minutes later, Sherlock’s sitting in the middle of the bed, hands steepled below his chin, looking vaguely lost. John takes pity; he crawls in beside him, and his sudden weight on the bed snaps Sherlock back to reality.

“Are we sleeping now?” He asks, and his voice is low and scratchy, and _oh_ , John could drown in it.

“Mmhm.” John pulls his detective down on the pillow beside him, yet Sherlock rolls over and lays himself out half on top of John. A pointy nose brushes softly against the juncture of his collarbone. “You sleeping here?”

He gets a nod more than anything, but it seems cautious, slightly resigned, so he curls an arm around a thin waist and pets at the downy curls under his chin. After a second, he flicks the light off on the bedside table and sinks into the mattress. Sherlock sinks in with him.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.”

He thinks he hears a mumbled, “Mine,” into his shoulder and John is over the moon. It’s comfortable like this; cozy and warm, and the thought grips John without warning that this is the exact place where he belongs: cuddling his sleepy detective in their (their!) bed.

And, oh, is he ready for their new normal.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, loves! thanks for reading, i hope you liked it. it was really fun writing this, and it's just a little something i've been working on that i just had to let GO so :) 
> 
> (also, i kind of fizzled out a little bit there at the end... um... i apologize, but i tried my best!) 
> 
> leave comments and kudos they are my drug
> 
> love you all <3


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